


Shoulder your burdens well

by 2SpaceGays



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, F/F, War of the Thorns | Burning of Teldrassil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 23:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18788455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2SpaceGays/pseuds/2SpaceGays
Summary: Valeera travels to Darkshore in search of one of the few friends she has left.





	Shoulder your burdens well

The door to Anduin’s chamber lets out a long, deep groan as it’s closed, the scarred wood shuddering when it meets the frame. It is not closed roughly, Anduin has never been rough, but it carries a finality to it nonetheless. The doorway marks the boundary between king and boy. In here, on the rare occasions in which he allows himself to be, he is eighteen again.

Valeera watches, the gloom that shrouds her friend’s vulnerability easily pierced by her elven eyes. Anduin’s broad shoulders slump, and she is sorry to add another burden to them. But she must.

“I’m going.”

He jerks in place but does not spin to confront her. He is calmer than his father. He listens, _thinks_ before he unsheathes his sword. But like his father and unlike so many others, he does not resent her presence, even if it is unexpected.

“Where?” he asks as he turns wearily away from the door. Valeera lights their customary candle for him to see her by and moves to help divest him of his armour. His hands are slow and tired, and soon he surrenders the effort demanded by the buckles and straps to her deft fingers. It is easier to speak to him about personal matters this way, without his empathetic gaze boring into her.

“Darkshore.”

Valeera feels him sigh under her hands, “First Genn and now you, too? I want to recover Teldrassil as much as anyone, but we’re stretched too thin as it is. The Alliance doesn’t have the resources to fight the Horde in Darkshore as well as Arathi and Zandalar.”

“I’m not here to argue with you,” she reminds him, lifting one heavy plate pauldron from his shoulder and onto the armour stand, then the next. She is insulted by how hastily he leaps to defend himself, as if she has ever questioned his judgement before, and she lets him hear the ire in her tone even as she soothes his guilt, “I know you’re doing the best you can with what you have. I know it pains you to not be able to help your allies. You’re a good king, Anduin.”

Before he can protest, she continues, “I’m not going to Darkshore to help the Alliance.” Surely, she does not need to remind him that that is not her role, that the Alliance is not her faction. “The last time I heard from Broll, he was in Darnassus. If he was still there when the Horde invaded Ashenvale, he would have fought alongside his people. I spoke to Tyrande and some of the refugees; no one has seen him. I can’t just _wait here_ and hope he shows up.”

 _I can’t just wait_ here _when he could be dying – or already dead –_ there **_._ **

Even with his back to her, even keeping her explanation as terse as she can, she is certain Anduin can hear the worry under the layers of exasperation she deliberately injects into her voice to hide it. But for all his compassion, he doesn’t call her on it, and for that she is immeasurably grateful.

“I have to see for myself.” She hangs his chest piece on the stand and leaves him to deal with the rest of it as she reclines against the windowsill, arms crossed loosely. Now, he turns to face her, allowing Valeera to view the understanding in his steady gaze.

“I hope you find him,” Anduin says, as sincere in that as he is in everything else he does.

Valeera barks a short, dry laugh, “I hope I _don’t_ . I hope I find him _here_ when I return, ready to lecture me about whatever he thinks I’ve done wrong this time.”

“The Horde are in Darkshore,” he points out, as if she doesn’t know.

She almost laughs again, “I’m a blood elf, Anduin. That’s all the Horde will see, if they see me at all. I have more to fear from the kaldorei and the Gilneans.”

“You could ask Tess to accompany you.”

He interpreted her words too literally; she does not pause to consider it, “No. I need to do this alone. If there are any messages you would like me to deliver in Kalimdor…”

He shakes his head, “Perith will not accept my letters. That door is closed.”

Valeera says nothing. There is no need. They have had this conversation before, when she had returned to him with a sliver of Baine Bloodhoof’s tusk.

As he looks at her, his eyes hold everything she was afraid they would, but the sternness of her expression warns against voicing whatever he wishes to say. If she _does_ find Broll in Darkshore, they will talk. For now, she has done what she came to do and she is ready to leave.

“I have to go. Genn is waiting for me.”

“Be careful, Valeera.”

“Belono sil'aru, Anduin.”

 

* * *

 

The devastation that has been wrought on Darkshore defies belief. Valeera cannot decide what is worse. The charred, bloated bodies washed upon the shore? The bloody, defiled carcasses strewn across the churned ground? The stench of smoke wafting in on the salty sea breeze, momentarily overwhelming the stink of the rot that has begun to take hold of the corpses and the more peculiar, putrid chemical smell that permeates the land? Any of those things alone would make her stomach roil, and the combination has forced Valeera to a halt on more than one occasion, to lean against tree punctured with arrows and _breathe_.

But there is no true reprieve, no unsullied place to let her eyes linger and no fresh air to suck into her lungs to push down the nausea eating into her very soul.

Valeera has no choice but to press on, although she keeps her hood up to prevent the ash raining from the sky from settling into her hair, and to blind her peripheral vision to the fire that still burns on Teldrassil. The less senseless carnage seared into her memory, the better.

She has long since ceased documenting the myriad of wounds she sees on the fallen. For each corpse her eyes land upon, she has just one question: _Are you Broll?_ For most, the answer is obvious: not a night elf, not male, not a druid. Broll’s appearance is rare among his people; she would identify him easily in his elven form. But for the bears, cats, birds and other transformations, she can only guess. Would she recognize him like that, when he’s surrounded by his kin? Would she recognize him with his face burned or his head beaten into a bloody pulp?

Valeera likes to think she would. Whether she would _want_ to is another question entirely.

She cannot possibly examine every body. There are enough scattered across Darkshore to keep her busy for days. And what about all of those that had fallen in Ashenvale? She cannot scour the entire region.

She does not _want_ to scour the entire region. In the small area she has covered already, she has seen enough.

She had seen enough before she had even landed on the shore. She had seen enough in the anguish and shock writ upon the faces of the kaldorei refugees crammed into Stormwind. Their expressions and injuries had painted a vivid enough image to discourage even the most stalwart of veterans from lending their aid.

Still, back in the city, the task she had placed before herself had seemed surmountable, if challenging,. But at soon as she had set foot upon the bloodied western shore of Kalimdor, her foolishness had been impossible to deny.

But she cannot stop yet.

Irritably, Valeera bats away a wisp that buzzes around her. If Broll lives, he will find her. He must know that she would come searching, and surely he would not leave her to wonder if he could help it.

Surely he would not _abandon_ her if he could help it. They may not always see eye-to-eye and their responsibilities might see them separated for long stretches of time, but they are _friends_. With Varian gone, she does not have enough of those left.

How many more will Sylvanas Windrunner take from her?

 

* * *

 

She’s been walking for hours when she finally comes across sign of life. She has glimpsed the Horde through the thickness of the trees, but none ventured near enough to be able to glimpse _her_ even if she was not cloaked in shadows.

But the life she comes across now is not the one she had hoped for. Valeera hears weeping, a reverent murmur cracked with despair, the broken melody accented clearly enough that she could divine its origin even if their surroundings did not make it obvious. The language is familiar, too, the mother tongue of her own mother tongue.

Darnassian. A female kaldorei.

Valeera slides silently through the shadows, creeping close enough to discern the cause of the woman’s tears – the _immediate_ cause. Their surroundings, the smoke in the air, provide ample reason for _anyone_ to be distressed. But the rogue judges there to be something more proximal, and she is right.

The night elf kneels over the corpse of another, “…the Mother Moon guide our sister Ilanelle on... on her sacred journey and that her ancestors and loved ones who have go--gone before her will make her... welcome.”

It is not Broll. Someone has found their friend out here amidst the slaughter, but that someone is not Valeera.

She is too numb to classify her feelings as disappointment or relief and too weary to move on. _Someone_ should bear witness to this. Someone who isn’t _her_ , but _she’s_ the only one here.

Valeera watches as the night elf takes a dented shovel to the ground beside the decreased, lifting away the top layer of soil watered by blood and softened by hundreds of invading boots, clearly intending to return her kin to the esteemed earth.

She can’t watch any longer. Her strides not brazen but respectful, the rogue steps out from behind the tree.

The night elf flinches when she sees her and drops the shovel, her hands jerking towards her waist where a small silver dagger dangles, “Fandu-dath-belore? Who goes there?”

Valeera holds up her empty palms to stall her, matching her reply to the Common the kaldorei takes up, “Peace, cousin. I am not your enemy.”

The night elf bares her teeth, moonlight glinting from her pearly white fangs.

Perhaps she should have thought this through. She _is_ sin’dorei, after all…

But then the other woman’s shoulders slump in defeat. Does she believe her? Or is she too shattered to care if she is killed? At least death would release her from the horrors of the forest.

Tentatively, Valeera takes another step closer, then when the kaldorei does not react, she steals another, then another.

“Let me help you.”

So she does. Valeera takes the shovel into her own hands and drives it into the hard, dry dirt revealed by the night elf’s efforts, over and over until the grave is acceptably deep and she feels the sting of blisters forming beneath her gloves.

The exertion feels good. Right. Leagues better than wandering through the trees in hunt of a face she does not wish to find.

The night elves have been devastated, the crown of their people annihilated in a single act of needless barbarity.

It hasn’t been so long since her people faced the same.

It hasn’t been so long since she wept over the bodies of her parents.

When she’s done, Valeera helps the night elf’s whose name she does not know and does not ask after, lift the corpse into the ground. Only when the dirt has been replaced on top and she has wiped the sweat from her brow with her bicep, does the rogue speak.

“I’m looking for someone. Broll Bearmantle. A druid. Do you know him?”

No recognition sparks in the night elf’s silver eyes. There is only pain.

Valeera shoos away another wisp and slinks back into the shadows to continue her search.

 

* * *

 

It is futile. She has viewed hundreds of corpses. She has kicked them over with the toe of her boot, knelt closer to peer at their features through the veneer of blood, followed moans of pain to orcs and goblins and one lone Gilnean human. For two of them, she had eased their inevitable suffering the only way she knows how. The third she had been able to hoist upright and point in the direction of safety.

There is still no sign of Broll.

Now what? She could return to Stormwind and pray that Broll will find her there. But the grief she feels will not be soothed by the high stone walls that comprise the city, and she knows how Anduin will look at her when she returns, her mission a resounding failure.

Liadrin?

The name comes to her mind unbeckoned, and her thoughts riot to dismiss the idea:

Quel’thalas is a whole continent away; to get there, she would need to return to Stormwind first, then make the long journey north through the plaguelands.

Liadrin may not even _be_ in Silvermoon; the Horde must be reveling in the aftermath of Sylvanas’ attack on Teldrassil, and that could take the matriarch anywhere from Orgrimmar to Dazar’alor. Valeera is sure only that she is not in Darkshore.

Even if she _does_ manage to find the Blood Knight matriarch, what could she say? Valeera has no desire to partake in another verbal sparring match, no desire to argue with her again about her self-enforced emancipation from her people, and no desire to reveal the damage this ill-fated trip has done to her being.

The abhorrent events of the past few days have sapped her conviction and she has doubts for her ability to pretend otherwise.

Besides, she does not need Liadrin to kiss her wounds or stroke her hair.

She does not need _anyone_ to kiss her wounds or stroke her hair.

Valeera tells herself all this and more as she sneaks aboard an outbound zeppelin, its deck dotted with injured sin’dorei.

The journey is long enough for her to reconsider and punctuated with countless opportunities to turn back. It is long enough for her to make up her mind one way or the other. Yet she does not. She reaches Silvermoon, parts of it still in disrepair.  Liadrin _is_ in residence, but rather than creep into her rooms, Valeera stands outside of them, tired and uncertain and not as hidden as she could be.

The mere thought of lifting her hand to knock, of opening her mouth to banter with the paladin, is wearying.

That is how Liadrin discovers her. At first, she does not spot her. Her own slow strides hint at her exhaustion, and the aggressive murmuring spouting from her lips makes the cause of her fatigue obvious: a meeting. Probably with Lor’themar and Hauldron, probably about Sylvanas. Probably about war.

For a moment, it crosses Valeera’s mind that the Blood Knight matriarch might endorse the move against the night elves. She _is_ a member of the Horde, after all. As well, she has spoken in support of Sylvanas before, back when they had all been united against the Burning Legion.

(Gods, had that been so recently? It feels like a lifetime ago – an _elf’s_ lifetime. Though _elves_ of any creed are now in short supply...)

No. Liadrin is a fervent follower of the Light. For all the animosity between the elven races, she would not – _could not_ – support this.

Valeera watches as Liadrin draws up short of the door to her rooms, watches her ears twitch towards her, watches her head gradually turn, hope softening the anger of her countenance.

When she lays those golden eyes upon her, the relief that surges through Valeera nearly causes her to shatter.

Her quips bind together the trembling fragments of her soul, “You’re getting better.”

“I almost missed you.”

“But you didn’t.”

Liadrin is already turning back to the door, unlocking it and leaving it ajar for Valeera to follow her inside. The rogue does, gliding deftly through the narrow opening as she has a hundred times before. Now, it is not _lust_ that fills her, but a volatile and unfamiliar mixture of relief and trepidation.

She pushes back her hood and leans heavily against the closed door, observing as Liadrin strips herself of her clothing. The sight of the paladin’s flesh is as appealing as it has always been, but it is also so, so frighteningly vulnerable. In Darkshore she had counted thirteen arrows in one orc’s body. How many would it take to fell Liadrin?

“Teldrassil?” Liadrin asks. Valeera snaps back to the present – has she really guessed already where she has been? Or is that all _anyone_ is talking about?

She has to know. “Did you know?”

The paladin stares at her in disbelief, “ _No_ . Light, _no_.”

That answers that. Relief floods through her, tinged with curiosity that is almost immediately ameliorated by what Liadrin says next.

“We thought the army was going to Silithus,” Liadrin goes on, determinedly returning to folding her clothing, heedless as to what her words and tone reveal about Sylvanas and her fractured leadership of the Horde. She doesn’t bother donning anything over the form-fitting vest she wore under her formal attire. “By the time we knew her plan, it was too late to call them back. How many made it out?”

“Most of the civilians escaped through portals. Thousands. Stormwind is overflowing.”

Finally, Valeera pushes herself away from the door. It takes just a few strides to cross the room, to press her front against Liadrin’s back and wind her arms around her torso. The delicious warmth she emanates is as healing as the power she wields.

She anticipates rebuke for her timing, but none comes. Liadrin’s body surrenders immediately, leaning back into her as Valeera brushes past her coppery locks to lay her lips against the side of her neck. Desire sparks but does not ignite within her; the firm kisses she bestows on the paladin are for the sake of expectation only. For the sake of keeping up appearances. As if through the performance she can will herself into feeling anything other than bone-deep inertia.

“You smell like smoke, Valeera.”

“Vanishing powder.” Her correction comes a fraction too late to convince Liadrin. The older woman lets out a quiet snort.

“You don’t use vanishing powder.” Carefully, Liadrin peels Valeera’s arms from her, unravelling herself from her touch. She moves to the table at the centre of the room and drags a glass towards herself, pouring crimson liquid into it from a jug, “Would you like a drink?”

“Please.”

Valeera collapses into one of the seats positioned at the table without waiting to be asked and accepts the first cup, drinking the contents in one determined gulp. The wine is strong and sour, just how she likes it.

Deliberately, Liadrin lowers herself into the seat opposite and pours another cup for herself, her golden eyes levelled at the rogue. Valeera knows the query is coming and braces herself against it, “Perhaps now you’ll tell me where you’ve been.”

Valeera’s eyes cut away of their own accord, then slide guiltily back to Liadrin when she realises how avoiding the other woman’s gaze must look. She’s usually a better liar than this, a better actress. Although the drink has seeped some life back into her, it is not enough to conjure the charade of normalcy she would like it to.

Valeera throws one arm over the back of the chair and offers a half shrug she prays looks more nonchalant than it feels, “Around.”

“Around? You show up at my door four days after the Horde invades Ashenvale looking like you _walked_ here from Stormwind—”

“I took a zeppelin. Then a wagon. Then I walked.”

“From where?” Liadrin is patient. More patient than the obtuseness of Valeera’s answers deserve. Valeera can see that it doesn’t come easily. The older elf is as tired as she is, and yet she somehow manages to suppress the irritation she must surely feel.

Valeera sucks in a slow, steadying breath and wills herself to meet those piercing eyes, “Darkshore.”

She watches Liadrin’s eyes go wide then sweep anxiously across the parts of her she can see from the other side of the table, likely searching for injuries she hasn’t noticed before now. There aren’t any. Not _physical_ ones, at least. None Valeera would _admit_ to having sustained, either. “You weren’t—”

Her stomach clenches at the fragrant display of concern, and she interjects before Liadrin can get any further, “No, I wasn’t there.”

Valeera had convinced herself that she was not seeking Liadrin for the comfort she could offer. But why else would she have followed the pull to Silvermoon? What else does she gain from being here? A distraction from her woes?

She nearly snorts at her own idiocy. Liadrin would never have offered her that, not without interrogating her first. Maybe _once_ she might have feigned obliviousness to the vile stench on her, but she no longer hides her compassion regardless of how determinedly Valeera attempts to dissuade it.

But Valeera is not discouraging the tenderness of her feeling now. She doesn't _want_ to. She _does_ want comfort, however loath she may be to admit it.

“I have a friend who might have been, so I went to look for him,” she explains.

“Broll?”

It’s been some time since Valeera mentioned Broll to her, and yet Liadrin still remembers, and well enough that the name springs to mind immediately. Valeera might have teased her for that, if she was in the mood. Instead, she only nods and reaches across the table to pour herself more wine. Before she can wrap her fingers around the jug’s handle, Liadrin catches her hand and holds it in both her own.

Valeera can feel her composure crumbling again; she tenses her chin and ears against the wobble the sudden tightness in her chest precipitates, clenches her jaw and bites the inside of her cheek. Tidal waves crash against the hull of her ship, sending quivering shockwaves through her stomach and diverting her eyes from Liadrin’s again.

“Did you find him?”

It takes her a moment to answer, to swallow down the bile rising in her throat and to ensure that her voice will not crack. “No.”

Liadrin doesn’t state the obvious: if Valeera did not find him, then there is chance he is still alive. But just as easily, his body could have been the next she nudged with her boot. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

“Are you alright?”

Valeera shrugs again and pries her trembling hand free to snag the wine, her face angled to the table to hide the dimples pocketing her chin. Liadrin permits her to fill her cup almost to the brim, and studies her as she drains it again.

Wordlessly, the paladin rises from her chair, “Let me get you something to eat.”

Hunger could not be further from Valeera’s mind. The stench of smoke is trapped in her hair, and she catches a whiff of what Liadrin must have made earlier as she twists her head to follow the other elf’s circuit around the table. Her rooms are beautiful. The enchanted lamps illuminate the traditional whites, reds, and purples of the interior in soft, warm light, glinting off golden accents that are a touch too sparse for Valeera’s tastes. But she cannot stop seeing the mangled bodies on the beach, bathed in the orange glow of the fire still raging on Teldrassil.

She is the kind of empty that food will not fill.

Liadrin’s hand clasps her shoulder and the rogue’s breath shudders though her, “I’m not--”

“Val?”

Felgreen eyes jerk towards the doorway where a much smaller elf teeters, her wispy blonde hair askew and a bear clutched under one arm.

 _Salandria._ How had she forgotten about Salandria? _Of course_ Liadrin’s adopted daughter is here.

“Sal!” Valeera plasters a superficial smile on her face but only barely manages to keep it there as Salandria barrels across the room to throw herself into her lap. Tiny fingers scrabble at her sides, searching for something to grasp, but her corset is smooth leather and the child must make do with clutching her waist instead.

“Did you hear about the night elves?” she whimpers, golden eyes turning up to meet Valeera’s gaze.

Valeera’s fingers settle against the back of her shoulder. The slimness of it is even more anxiety-provoking than the sight of Liadrin’s skin. There were no dead children in Ashenvale, but she had seen the dirt-smeared, wide-eyes faces of many living ones in Stormwind -- orphans like Salandria. Like Liadrin. Like Anduin. Like her.

Has anyone on Azeroth escaped the scars of war?

The effort required to keep her voice even is monumental. Valeera fingers thread into Salandria’s hair to urge the child’s face against her heaving stomach while she desperately reins in her composure, “Yes. But our cousins will be alright. Most escaped through portals to Stormwind.”

It’s not a lie, but it certainly _feels_ like one when her mind’s eye is filled with carnage not even the innocence of the young sin’dorei can banish.

She did not come here to comfort a child, and she selfishly begrudges that she must do so when she teeters on the brink of catastrophe herself. She is not equipped for this. She is equipped for lessons in throwing daggers only, for teaching survival skills, for being regaled with fanciful tales of the Tauren Chieftains, and for enabling pranks against Liadrin.

Valeera knows not what to do with children’s tears, but Salandria is already sobbing. The expression she finds on Liadrin’s face when she turns her eyes beseechingly towards her, suggests this is not the first time, “Their homes got destroyed. Where will they live now?”

Mercifully,  Liadrin approaches to kneel beside Valeera’s chair and lay a steadying hand on her daughter’s quaking back, “As long as the kaldorei have people who care for them, they will always have a home.”

The paladin looks not at Salandria, but at the rogue she hangs onto. The holy glow of her eyes banishes any shadows that would otherwise linger under them and obscure the dark bags that must surely hang there, and she looks at Valeera so tenderly as to viciously strip her of the meagre fortitude she clings to.

Valeera squeezes her eyes closed and hangs her head and does not pull away as Liadrin covers her hand with her own.

_Broll._


End file.
